The Flags Will Fly
by Samsonic1991
Summary: We thought it all ended on the Fifth of November. But sometimes you must look...before you leap. READ IT, REVIEW IT, DON'T FLAME IT! Chapter 8 is up, and I need more reviews here people!
1. Intro: Into the Depths of Death

Note: I am sure that this type of story has been done before. If you have written a fic similar to this one in plot, then please know that what I am writing is my own original work. I do not own V for Vendetta or any of the characters.

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Chapter 1: All Things Must Come to Fruition:

_After the final showdown between Creedy and V._

The masked figure clutched his stomach and let out a soft groan. He could feel the thick, warm blood oozing into his hands as he stumbled down the tunnel. He leaned up against a wall and breathed heavily, wincing from the sharp pain of the bullets which had torn through his body. _Tonight_, he thought, _the revolution begins_. His plan had been to blow up the Parliament, and even in the face of death, the man known as "V" would not abandon his plans. He stumbled down the long, winding tunnel, down to the fate which he had long awaited.

As V stumbled further away, little did he know that there was someone in the shadows, watching him and grinning as though they had just won the lottery. _All things must come to fruition_, the hidden figure thought. _Soon, you, my dear boy, will hatch the egg of my long awaited plan. _The hidden figure grinned again and walked into a hidden corridor in the station. The figure knew that it was only a matter of time before the final chapter of V's story would end, and the first chapter of another story would begin.

The corridor led to a beautiful scenic outlook over all of London, from where the figure could see the spectacle which was about to unfold. The figure leaned over the railing of the little balcony and lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes the figure stood in deep thought, pondering the mysteries of life, liberty and liability, questions which had always stood the test of time. Suddenly, a distant explosion interrupted the train of thought. The figure bolted up from his leaning posture and looked in the direction of the Parliament Building. A huge ball of fire ascended into the sky, a signal of the supposed victory of the people. The figure smiled and took a long drag of his cigarette. _Enjoy this moment, citizens of Britain_, the figure thought. _Celebrate and be merry, for soon this event will appear as nothing more than a dream._ The figure let out a maniacal, sinister laugh, knowing soon his personal plans would be Britain's eventual tomorrow. A bolt of lightening ignited the sky, and thunder roared throughout the country as the citizens of Britain celebrate their long-awaited hope.

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So how's that for a start? NO FLAMES!!


	2. Chapter 1: The Nightmare

_Ten years later…_

Evey Hammond bolted up from her bed in a cold sweat. Her breasts were trembling with the rest of her body, and her eyes were full of tears. It was the nightmare again, one which had plagued her for the last ten years.

It was always the same dream. She would be sitting in a field of grass, the sun setting over the city of London. The birds were chirping, the flies were buzzing, and the trees were blowing in the cool wind. Suddenly, the ground would shake beneath her, and the roar of an engine would be heard in the distance. When she turned to face it, there was the British Army in all its glory. Evey would sit and stare in confusion, and then overhead she would hear jets rush through the air, followed by a loud explosion upon the soldiers. A thick cloud of smoke would cover the Army, and Evey would cough as though the smog had just penetrated her throat. As the smoke settled, she would see perhaps the most horrifying sight of her life: skeletons in army outfits, their bodies fixed perfectly upright as though nothing had happened. And from there, a familiar voice would echo into her ear: "Hello, Ms. Hammond!"

And before she could name the voice, Evey would wake up in a pool of sweat and tears, shaking with fear. She never understood the dream, but she knew that she wanted it to end.

Ten years had passed since the destruction of the Parliament Building and the subsequent ousting of the Norsefire Party, and since then the country had fallen largely on hard times. Labor was down, inflation was up, and poverty was at an all-time high. Evey had chosen to continue her work at the British Television Network, which somehow managed to survive the dying economy. And she had married a fairly wealthy man who once worked with the government, and was now a producer of the nation's most popular television show. Eric Finch sat up next to Evey, awakened by her sudden reaction. He stared into her eyes, fully aware of what had happened. Still, with the common concern of a husband who pretends to be somewhat unaware, he asked her, "What's wrong, love?"

Evey clutched the blanket tightly, ready to burst into tears. "Oh Eric," she sighed, "I had that dream again. I don't understand it Eric, I just don't…" Finch took his wife into his arms and caressed her gently. She buried her head in his arms and sobbed like she had never sobbed before. Finch held her tightly, fearing for the safety of his wife. He did not understand her dreams, but he feared that she would one night snap and murder both of them in a crazed effort to understand it for herself. "Evey darling," he whispered, "maybe you should go see a doctor or a specialist to help you understand the dream."

Evey knew that her husband meant well, but she hadn't seen a shrink in seven years. For three years, she had seen perhaps hundreds of therapists about her nightmare, and none of them could conclusively tell her what type of problem she had. She had heard phrases such as "post traumatic stress disorder," "generalized anxiety disorder," "major depressive disorder" and others over a thousand times already, and she was now thoroughly convinced that the psychiatric community did not understand what it was doing. Hell, one psychiatrist actually suggested that the source of her nightmares was her husband! This particular therapist diagnosed Finch with erectile dysfunction, while, Evey had heard, the same man had been unable to bring even his secretary to her climax. The nerve of some people!

Finch knew as well that his wife had a problem with psychiatrists; she never hid her feelings from him nor any man. The British Publishing Corporation had named Evey a "poster girl for British feminism," something which Finch actually viewed as a source of personal pride: his ability to love and live with an outspoken feminist like Evey was the envy of his personal friends who always claimed that they saw nothing wrong with feminism, but insisted on remaining in control of the household. Still, he feigned unawareness to express his heartfelt concern for the wellbeing of his wife. Finch continued to hold Evey tightly in the glow of the moonlight, their souls merging as one in a symbol of their undying love. The lives of ordinary Britons, Finch knew, had been changed forever by the events of one November fifth, ten years ago tomorrow. Some had changed for the better, and some…for the worst.


	3. Chapter 2: Return!

_The next day..._

It was November fifth, and officially ten years had now passed since the liberation of Britain. The sun was shining and, as was common on this day, the streets of Britain were quiet. There was nobody in the street, nobody mugging old women, nobody shouting profanities at local businesses. It was all peaceful, tranquil, and quiet. The country was usually quite settled on this particular day, a day of thanks and remembrance, as well as a day of almost blind worship. Nobody would say it, but the Fifth of November had been transformed from a celebration of freedom to a celebration of V himself. People would wear Guy Fawkes masks and attempt to impersonate the "Great Liberator" as they called V. However, work was still mandatory if you were employed, and so anyone who wanted to make their living had to come in to work anyway.

Finch stared out the window at the calm city streets. A few people wearing black capes and Guy Fawkes masks crossed the street every now and then, but other than that the entire city was empty. He sighed heavily and put on his suit. As he stared into the mirror, he expected to see only himself. However, as he adjusted his tie, he saw in the mirror a man whose life, despite having witnessed an extraordinary event, remained relatively unchanged. A man whose mouth said "change," but whose heart said "same shit." A man whose purpose was unclear and perhaps even nonexistent. Finch sighed again and looked at Evey, who was sound asleep. Usually, her nightmares stopped only after they had sex, so roughly every 5 nights, 45 minutes was spent by the two of them making love. Not that Finch minded of course. He smiled and blew her a kiss, grabbed his brief case, and headed downstairs. _Another day_, he thought, _another dollar_. It was that old universal saying, one his former coworkers would mutter to themselves when they arose to go to work every day during the rule of the Norsefire Party. It served as an official state reminder to government workers that they were getting paid for their services, even though they received absolutely nothing out of their work. Finch slowly unlatched the door, opened it, stepped out, and then closed the door. As a precaution, Finch checked his suit for his M-9 Beretta, just to be on the safe side. The British Arms Manufacturing Company had gone out of business a year after the destruction of the Parliament, and any Britons who sought to purchase a firearm now had to travel to another country to obtain it. As a result, few people had guns; thugs in Britain were now reduced to using knives for intimidation, and police officers relied on mace and nightsticks only.

Finch walked down the street, whistling "Long Live the Queen" quietly. Although the courts had been abolished by the popular rebellion, it was now the de facto law of the streets that to even mention archaic figures such as the Queen was a sin punishable by a public beating. Evey and Finch lived in a small house at the end of a fairly sized cul-de-sac which led into Britain. This cul-de-sac had been built by Norsefire to house the poor and the needy. After the revolution, the area was abandoned by its inhabitants who saw it as a sign of their oppression. This allowed the wealthy to take up housing in this area. Finch loved his neighbors, his wife, and his country, but for some reason it didn't feel right for him to live here.

As Finch walked down the street, a man passed him wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and a black cape. "Good morning, good sir," the man said. Finch smiled and nodded. "Good morning, sir." The man nodded once, then turned and continued walking. It was an odd experience for Finch, but not uncommon. Every year on the Fifth, this would happen: the feeling of celebration would bring the residents to act with dignity and decency for the whole day, and by midnight the streets would erupt into chaos again. It was the circle of life in the nation of Britain.

Walking past the local bakery, Finch began to feel a strange sense that he was being watched. He knew it was ridiculous; it was November Fifth. Everybody was at home celebrating with their families! Yet despite repeated mental reassurances, he could not shake off the feeling that someone, somewhere, was monitoring him. The howling of the winds seemed to whisper into his ears, a voice from his distant past. A voice which sent chills down his spine. It seemed to whisper, over and over again: "Fiiiiiinch...Fiiiiinch." Actually, there was a word before his name which he could not make out. It was muffled, disguised by the pickup of the wind.

Suddenly, before he knew what happened, a large gloved hand grabbed Finch by the arm and pulled him into an alleyway. He felt the blow of a firm boot slamming rapidly into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and knocking his briefcase to the concrete ground. Air, then spit, then phlegm, then blood, poured out of Finch's mouth with each brutal blow. "Please...stop..." he pleaded to the thugs. With each blow, however, he could not get the words out, and now he felt a second foot hammering away at his spine. The blows were now coming in from the front and the back, and now Finch felt as though his spine was about to crack. _Dear God in Heaven_, he thought, _please take me now. Please Dear Lord, take my soul and end this torment_. Suddenly, Finch felt the blows lessening, but not ending. He knew now that if there was a Hell, then it felt like this.

"Boys, that's enough," said a mysterious voice from within the shadows. The men ceased their beating of Finch and walked to the shadowy figure. Finch coughed and wheezed, blood trickling down his nose and pouring out of his mouth. The figure stepped out of the shadows, wearing a suit and a Guy Fawkes mask. He kneeled down beside Finch and looked into his eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Finch," the figure said. He reached up and pulled off his mask. Finch was horrified: kneeling right beside him, staring straight into his soul, was former Chancellor Adam Sutler. Finch was speechless. Sutler had been assassinated by Inspector Creedy ten years ago! Yet there he was, alive and healthy as ever. Sutler cocked his head and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag off of it. "What's wrong, Mr. Finch?" Sutler asked. "Aren't you happy to see your former employer?"

"You're supposed to be dead," Finch managed to say. Sutler grinned and blew a cloud of smoke in his face.

"I know, that's what all of Britain is saying. But I couldn't simply let my people trust their own decision-making capabilities. It would have been so...negligent." Sutler smiled again and took another drag off of his cigarette.

"It doesn't matter...whether you're alive or dead..." Finch said between coughs. "You have...no...power! You have...nothing!"

Sutler flicked his cigarette to the side and lifted Finch's head up from the floor. He looked deep into the younger man's eyes and blew another cloud of smoke at him. "On the contrary, my dear boy. I am in full control."

Finch stared at Sutler with a puzzled expression. "What are you blathering about?"

Sutler grinned, his yellow teeth glistening in the morning sunlight. "Mr. Finch, it surprises me that you haven't picked up on the basic lessons of control from your years of working in my cabinet. Let me make this very clear to you. Mr. Finch, before Norsefire came to power, the country had little concern for its safety. The ideas of liberty and freedom took precedent over national security. When we were attacked all those years ago, the people of our nation became more safety conscious and fearful of another attack. Now, Norsefire came to power by attacking the opposition for being 'soft on terrorists' and allowing our nation to be attacked in the first place. Can you imagine? We were almost thanking the terrorists for their actions! Terrorism was our rallying cause! Lewis Prothero rose to stardom on its back. I became the Party's nominee by speaking about it. And you were promoted several times because of it. We all benefited from terrorism, Mr. Finch.

"Politicians benefit from the exploitation of terrorism and public fear. A terrorist is a politician's best friend! It doesn't matter what party, what ideology, what name. All politicians, to a particular extent, benefit from terrorism. And Norsefire, under the guise of stopping terrorism, used our political power to take control of the BTN and the local police departments, and bring them all under our scope. We transformed this nation into the United Kingdom of Norsefire! We managed to take away our peoples' freedoms right under their noses with their consent. Yes, they eventually became dissatisfied when the terrorist V showed up, but that did not matter when he made his introduction. We dismissed it as a demolition, a mere replacement of the old with the new. However, when he began assassinating our best men, even I was worried for my own safety. And then I realized: I could use this to my future advantage if I play it out right."

Finch stared at his former boss with further confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Finch, that person Mr. Creedy assassinated that night was a double I had hired to take my place in situations like this. Before I was ousted, Britain was a nation of laws and orders! We had stability and control! But we had _dissatisfaction_! In order to be a good leader, one must maintain stability _and_ popularity. I saw what happened after I fled the country ten years ago: chaos, disorder, death in the streets. Britain was crying out for stability and order, Mr. Finch, and I had to fulfill that request. Look at what the ideas of freedom and democracy have brought our nation. We could have had order, but now we have chaos. I think it's time that Britain's noble experiment came to an end.

"In the last ten years, crime in Britain has skyrocketed. Robberies and arson take place every day, and muggings have become another part of British life. Degenerates have begun contaminating good English people: blacks with whites, Jews with Christians, open homosexuality. Decency has become a joke to the people of this nation, where perverts now masturbate in the public squares! Homes have been ravaged, government buildings are now occupied by peasants and degenerates, and overall production of commodities has spiked downwards. All of this, Mr. Finch, we in the Norsefire Party knew would happen if man were given unbridled freedom! We sought to protect the British public from their own stupid actions. But nobody took us seriously when V came along. I sought, through my own personal means, to prove to the British people that the absence of oppression would be the absence of order. So I took the fifth of November and transformed it into my own personal celebration.

"Mr. Finch, in a fascist society, governmental failure is nonexistent. It occurs, that's true, but it is unspoken and unseen. When Norsefire ruled Britain, we were without fault, without error, without failure. The BTN was our own _Pravda_, our own Department of Public Relations. Dissent and unrest until ten years ago seem nonexistent and mythical. That is the goal of the government which adheres to fascism and totalitarianism, to promote itself in the eyes of the world by proudly saying, over and over, that our people are satisfied with their government and their country. And so we had to give them little trinkets to satisfy their discontent: cigarettes, pornography, substances, technology. When we took over these industries, profits, production and output tripled, while we condemned them in public to retain our popularity. Cigarette production and consumption tripled, while Norsefire condemned the industry as hazardous and vile. Pornography was marketed in supermarkets and corner stores, while Norsefire blasted it for being immoral and filthy. Marijuana and cocaine were smuggled into the country, while Norsefire cracked down on independent drug dealers and initiated education demonizing those substances. And we sold more iPods and CD players to the public, while simultaneously restricting downloading capabilities to prevent the moralists from complaining about a lack of order. Mr. Finch, we turned bureaucracy in business. And the time has now come to take back British society, and bring Norsefire back in control!"

Finch looked at Sutler. "You're a madman. They'll never accept you as their leader."

"Mr. Finch, I am not running in the public eye. I'm sure you remember your old colleagues?" The two masked men removed their costumes and glared at Finch. It was Conrad Heyer and Roger Dascomb, the head of the surveillance department and the head of the propaganda department, respectively. "These two men, Mr. Finch, will take my place. They are unknown among the people of Britain and would thus make perfect candidates for this office. First, we will win the trust of the people through populist rhetoric and passionate oratory. Then, we will recreate the Norsefire hierarchy all over again, appointing new people and offering them millions. Next, we will spread our control to the rest of society. Finally, we will crush all political opposition by branding it treasonous and terroristic, recreating British society all over again!" Sutler pulled out his gun, a Walther PPK, and pointed it at Finch's head. "Now, Mr. Finch, if you don't want to die right here, I have two requests."

"Name them, Chancellor," Finch squeaked.

"First," Sutler said, "in seven days I want you to leave this country. And never come back." He turned and motioned for Heyer and Dascomb to follow. Finch lifted himself up and called after Sutler, "What about the second request?"

Sutler looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Bring me the girl."


	4. Chapter 3: How Government Works

Sutler sat in a dim room, laboring over the speeches he was writing for Dascomb and Heyer. These speeches, he knew, would have to appeal to the people's direct interests: the crime rates, the unemployment, the need for a new path...and, of course, V. Sutler clenched his fists tightly, snapping his pencil in half. He hated that man, the one who tried to kill him all those years ago. The one who embodied all of that which he opposed: freedom, justice, and tolerance. Yet any speech he was to devise from now on had to portray V in a positive but somewhat critical light, so it was important that he swallow his pride and just put up with it.

Sometimes Sutler wondered why he was the one writing these speeches. After all, Dascomb and Heyer were working for him, not the other way around. Then he would aways remember that it was because he was the better writer out of the three of them. In fact, the kids in his school used to call him "Sutler the Scribe" because of his superb writings. He shook his head and tried to brush off those memories: lunch periods in the school yard, eating his sandwiches and talking to his friends, popular in his surroundings but alone in his mind. He pressed the pen to the paper and continued writing.

_Downstairs..._

Heyer and Dascomb sat across from one another, chatting amiably about the latest in entertainment, politics, literature, foreign affairs. Dascomb sat with his right leg folded across his left, brushing his hair and checking his nails. Heyer stretched his legs across the table and adjusted his suit, working with the room temperature as it fluctuated. They were close friends, always chatting in the late hours during the reign of the Party. However, they sat now in a dim, dingy room, discussing the world as it passed them by.

"Roger, do you think the chancellor's really thought this through?" Heyer asked. Dascomb smiled at the slightly older man and chuckled.

"Of course, Conrad. He's had ten years, hasn't he? The bloke isn't a fool, you know. I really think he's onto something with this." He adjusted his tie and smiled again. From where he was sitting, he could stare straight into Heyer's eyes: orbs of gray floating in seas of white. Dascomb shook his head and smiled, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling the rough-tasting smoke into his lungs, and then letting the stream of smoke pour out of his mouth. Heyer pulled out another cigarette, lit it, and watched the smoke stream upwards. He took a drag off of it and looked at his own feet, almost studying them as though they were topics of fascination.

"So Roger, if you think the chancellor's got it all down, why do I get the feeling that he's still scared?"

"Conrad, he **is** still scared. Not of V, of course. That threat is gone. He's afraid now of his own people." Dascomb took a drag from the cigarette and puffed out the smoke.

"Then the terrorist accomplished his mission."

Dascomb laughed and stood up. He walked to the tinted window of the abandoned office building in which they were lodging, and stared out into the streets. He took another puff and put out the cigarette. Blowing the smoke against the glass, he turned to his longtime friend and smiled.

"Conrad, of **course** V accomplished his goal! The goal of every liberator, every revolutionary, every guerilla warrior, is to instill the fear of the people into the leaders. But that's what we also sought to accomplish in Norsefire: we made the people fear and reject the previous government. Then, we turned our revolution around and installed our own dictatorship. We had full control of the national government within a year's time. So I'm pretty sure we'll be able to trick these gullible people a second time."

The door flew open instantly. Chancellor Sutler stood in the doorway with several pages in each hand, grinning as he walked towards his henchmen. He threw the papers, each stapled individually, on the table and grinned again. "Gentlemen, we have our plan."

Heyer put out his cigarette and stared at Sutler. He trusted Sutler to the fullest extent, but he wasn't always so sure Sutler's plans were constructed with the greatest of care. "Chancellor, what is our plan exactly?"

"Mr. Heyer, I'm glad you asked. The first major part of my plan is to cast you both as seperate, but independent, candidates for office. Mr. Dascomb, you are to run on a platform of fiscal responsibility, immigration reduction and crime control. Mr. Heyer, your platform is one of isolationism, fiscal charity and crime prevention. Then, we hold popular elections and declare that is being done in the spirit of November the Fifth. After that, we declare the victor and hold a fake congratulatory party for him and the 'loser.' While that becomes the public image, privately both men will work together on the issues and report back to me for confirmation. That is the true working of a government, gentlemen."

Heyer sat back and thought for a minute. "You know what? That actually sounds workable."

Sutler nodded and smiled at him. "Of course, Mr. Heyer. That's because I thought of it." He threw his head back and laughed. Phase One had just begun.

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Sorry it's so abrupt. I just kind of wrote this while I was a little drowzy. But it won't end here, I swear! REVIEW PLEASE!!!


	5. Chapter 4: Hello, Ms Hammond

"Eric, this wine is simply amazing," Evey said as she sipped a glass of zinfandel. She and Finch were out on the beautiful promenade of Britain's fanciest restaurant. Finch smiled nervously and stared into his wife's beautiful brown eyes; they seemed to penetrate his soul, filling him with loving anguish and anguishing love. Sighing, he pulled out his cell phone and wrote a quick text message: "We're at the promenade." He slipped the phone back into his pocket and smiled at Evey.

"Eric, who were you writing just now?"

"Oh, just the guys at the office, love," Finch lied. He smiled back at her and took her hand, massaging it gently as he watched her drink her zinfandel. He kissed her hand and looked at her. "So love, how was your day?"

"Pretty much the same as every day," Evey said drily. "Got up, went to the office, chatted with the security people and some friends, a coffee break, a cigarette break, and then two more hours of just sitting around and chatting. Same as usual." She lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke out over the water. Finch stared at her in vexation; he hated to see her smoke. It was such a repulsive habit to him. On the other hand, however, there was something inherently sexy about the smoke trailing out of her puckered lips, something which aroused him every time he saw it. Shaking his head, Finch picked up his fork and chewed on a mouthful of his salad.

Suddenly, Finch spotted a large man in a black cape and Guy Fawkes mask with one of Creedy's infamous black bags in his hands. He and Evey were the only people on the promenade, so this wasn't going to be too difficult for the man to accomplish. Finch looked down at his salad and held back his tears. Now was not the time to be afraid; he had to let go of her if he wanted to save himself.

"What's wrong, Eric?" Evey asked.

Finch looked up and ran those three words over in his head. He had to think of something, and quick. "Oh, nothing really. It's just that I'm sort of disappointed that November Fifth has become less about freedom and justice, and now has become a Christmas for V."

"Eric, he liberated our country. He spoke to all of us with the most powerful and provocative of words. Of course it's become a celebration of him!"

"No, love. You don't understand. I mean, V wanted this to be a celebration of freedom and justice, liberation and fairness. For about five years, that's what November Fifth was: people staying home to cook for their families and celebrate these wonderful things together. Today, November Fifth has become a day of idolization, where we only celebrate V the man, and not his ideas. As I walked through the streets this morning, I saw five different people wearing black capes and Guy Fawkes masks, which irked me because it means that people have forgotten what this day is about."

Evey leaned back in her chair and thought about what Finch had just said. As she sat in deep thought, little did she realize that the masked man was now sneaking up on her. She sighed and said, "Eric, I really think you're overreacting. Yes, November Fifth _has_ become a celebration of the man himself, and not his ideas like he wanted it to be. But by celebrating that man, we are also celebrating his ideas, and the lengths he went to in order to validate those ideas. So really, the day has still managed to maintain its former meaning." She sat back and stared at her husband in triumph. Finch chuckled and took another forkful of his salad.

"Well Evey, love, you got me," he said with a grin.

Evey smiled and took her napkin. "You have some salad in your teeth," she said as she wiped her husband's mouth.

The figure was now behind Evey, holding the black bag in his hands. He motioned to Finch that if he had any last words for Evey, now was the time to say them. Finch sighed and thought for a few minutes.

"Evey, you know I love you with all my heart," Finch began. "I would never purposefully do anything to harm you, you know that?"

"Of course, Eric," Evey said somewhat nervously. She knew that this was a bad omen. Nothing good could come of a man who said he would never deliberately harm you without you bringing up the subject in the first place. Still, she sat back and listened to Finch.

"Evey, I love you so much. And so believe me, please, when I say that I am so, so sorry." He kissed her hand and stepped back from her.

"Eric what are you…" Evey began. And suddenly, everything went black. Evey fought long and hard against the darkness which was being forced upon her, but nothing could get rid of it. "ERIC!!!" she screamed. She heard nothing in response, except scuffling noises, and Finch's hard-soled black shoes getting further and further away. And then, she truly blacked out.

_Later_…

Evey groaned as she awoke. Suddenly, she realized that she was in a small room. It was cold, dingy and smelled of cigarettes. Her hands were tied firmly behind her back, so she was now unable to escape. Looking around, there was only one window, and it was barred to keep her from escaping. Suddenly, she jumped.

She was sitting in front of a table, her half of the room fully lit, and the other half darkened. Emerging just into her lit area were two hairy hands, covered by the sleeves of a suit. A cloud of smoke emerged from the darkness and disintegrated into her face. The figure on the other side stood up and adjusted his suit.

"Hello, Ms. Hammond!" the figure said. It was the same voice from her nightmares! Suddenly the figure emerged into the light, and Evey's skin went pale white. Standing in front of her, like the ghost of Christmas Past, was Chancellor Sutler.


	6. Chapter 5: Working Along the Lines

Evey stared in shock at the man in front of her: Sutler! He was supposed to be dead! Creedy had assassinated him all those years ago! Her mind began to race with fright as those words ran through her mind over and over again.

"Wrong, Ms. Hammond," Sutler snarled, almost as though he had read her mind. She looked up at him with fright and hatred. The man who had ordered the murder of her parents, the man who had placed her in that dreaded juvenile reclamation program when she was a child, stood before her now with a lit cigarette and the security of her restrained arms. Sutler grinned and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "These delightful little bringers of death," he said softly. "I don't know how I'd live without them...or how I'd do this." And with that, he grabbed Evey's arm and pressed the cigarette into her flesh. Evey screamed as the agonizing pain shot through her body, like an arrow piercing her breasts. Sutler smiled and tossed the extinguished cigarette aside, chuckling as he watched Evey's eyes water.

"You're sick..." Evey managed to say through her clenched teeth.

Sutler cocked his head and frowned. "Oh, you didn't enjoy that, Ms. Hammond?" He smiled and looked at her. "Well, that's exactly how I felt when you and the rest of the insolent public beytrayed me for that terrorist!" Sweat poured from his forehead as he angrily paced the room. He looked out the window at the town below, a town he once owned and now had to relinquish to his underlings in the public eye. He slammed his fist against the wall and breathed heavily for a minute. Then, he looked back at the young woman and smiled again. "Well, it doesn't really matter much now, does it? Because either way, you're still a prisoner in this building. A prisoner of the forthcoming state of Britain!"

Evey looked at Sutler and tried to laugh. But with the pain she had just experienced, and the anger she felt toward him, she could only managed a chuckle. "Fuck you!" she yelled. "You have no fucking power, you piece of shit!"

"Oh, a little fiesty, aren't we?" Sutler walked over to Evey and raised his hand, bringing it down with a loud _SMACK!_ His hand left a red impression on her right cheek, and a festering scar on her soul. "If I were you, Ms. Hammond, I would think before I spoke." He smiled again and pulled his chair over to her.

"You piece of filth," she muttered. "You have no power. You will fail anyway." Sutler laughed at her and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit the paper and took a deep drag off of it.

"My dear Ms. Hammond, you obviously have no clue how I plan to take back control of this little country," he sneered. "I'd explain it to you, but you women are so stupid and driven by emotion instead of logic, that you'd never understand any of it."

Evey's blood began to boil. She was a staunch feminist, and she _HATED_ when men spoke like that. "You are a fucking pig," she barked at him.

Sutler laughed and stood up. "Ms. Hammond, I know I am. But I am a logical and clear-headed pig, who understands the way things work. Men and women, I know, are human beings regardless of what people may say. But men such as myself, traditionalists, understand that notions of gender equality lead to the broader understandings of racial, national, religious and sexual equality. The traditionalists who supported Norsefire were sexists, racists, xenophobes, homophobes, fanatics. They were our primary base, Ms. Hammond, and so we appealed to their notions which seem antiquated in this changing world we live in.

"The party in power, as well as the parties which oppose it, seek to appeal not to the broader society, but instead to the majority of its political base. For example, a left-wing socialist party will appeal to feminists, minorities and the youth to gain support and votes. Because in the end, that's what politics is about, Ms. Hammond: who can rack up the most votes from the most people. That was why Norsefire sought to divide people based on the lines we drew: men and women, blacks and whites, homosexuals and heterosexuals, Christians and Catholics, Britains and foreigners. As long as the party in power can keep the people fighting amongst one another, it can gather more power for itself without interruptions from a shrill public. That way, the government no longer has to fear the people, while the people must fear the government.

"Division starts with small issues: courtrooms finding racial minorities guilty more often than the ethnic majority, women working for a dollar less than men, governments granting tax exemption to churches and not organizations. As these things continue to exist, they are eventually piled upon by larger things such as segregation, sodomy laws, and gender roles. All of that culminates, Ms. Hammond, in the structuring of British society into a nation divided by class, race, religion, sexuality, gender, and nationality, while the party in power knows the truth: equality exists only as a perspective, never as a reality."

Evey hung her head and seethed with anger at Sutler. She furrowed her brow and lifted her head, staring straight at the elderly man. He hadn't aged much in ten years, a few gray hairs here and there, but aside from that he looked very much the same. He stared back at her and smiled, clicking his heels together loudly.

"I hate you," she hissed. Sutler smiled and sat down.

"Ms. Hammond, your appreciation doesn't matter to me," he said drily. He moved closer to her and squeezed her breast tightly. "You certainly have a lovely body, Ms. Hammond. It's a shame that I'm leaving you here to die. We could have shared some intimate moments together." With that, he threw her out of her chair and onto the cold plastic mattress in the corner. He ripped her clothing and smacked her violently. "You asked for this, you filthy bitch!"

Sutler tore Evey's skirt and panties away, while the younger woman kicked and screamed for help. "STOP!! SOMEBODY HELP ME!!" But she knew that no one was coming to her rescue. These were thick walls, sound would never penetrate them, and the ground was too far below for people to hear her. Suddenly she felt a cold breeze run between her legs, and her hair stood up on its end. And then, the sharp pain.

Sutler grabbed Evey's hair and rocked violently against her, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out, without remorse nor pause. Evey emitted a bloodcurdling scream, the pain shooting through her torso sharply and quickly. The older man raised his hand and slapped her again, thrusting harder and faster. He spit in her face and screamed at her, "Goodnight, Ms. Hammond!" And with that, he released inside her and pulled his member out of her. Standing up, Sutler pulled up his pants and adjusted his belt. Evey panted heavily, blood trickling down her nose and phlegm firing from her mouth as she coughed. Sutler bent down and held her head to his face.

"Disgusting," he spat. He stood up and kicked her in the stomach. The pointy toe of his shoe seemed to impale her on its end, and she felt like death was calling. Sutler moved away from her and opened the door to the cell. "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Hammond. I know I certainly will." And with that, he slammed the heavy door behind him.

Evey curled up in a ball and sobbed heavily. She wanted Finch, her husband, her lover. The man who never harmed her, as he had promised her before.


	7. Chapter 6: Falling Into Place

_Outside Big Ben..._

Mobs of people shouted and heckled as bodies grinded up against one another. Young men threw punches, women tossed handbags in the air, and elderly people brought their canes up and down, trying to quell the violence. A black man fell to the ground with a resounding thud, with several white men kicking his ribs while a white girl tried to protect him from the blows. An elderly man jabbed his cane into a child's side, sending the tot into a seizure. Chaos ruled the streets, as the bright evening sun looked down upon the disorganized populace.

Dascomb and Heyer stood in the shadows, waiting for just the right moment to present itself. Dascomb took a drag off his cigarette and twirled his hair, staring at the young men and women plowing each other down without mercy. Heyer stared at the elderly folks trying to quell the fighting, while taking part in the battles. Dascomb extinguished his cigarette and tossed it into the fountain nearby. Now, he knew, was the time to move in. He had rehearsed his lines, and he now had his speech memorized by heart. Sighing heavily, he walked to the entrance of Big Ben, stood on the steps, and begun: "My brothers and sisters, lend me your ears!"

The crowd fell silent, stopping their motion to focus on the young man who stood before them. His golden hair glistened in the evening sunlight, and the wind blew gently against his face. He now had their full attention, and all he had to do was speak.

"Ten years ago, a great man liberated our beloved nation from the depths of despotism, bringing us to the soaring heights of liberty. He took us to the hills of hope, above the fields of fascism which we had known for so long. His great hope was that Britain would experience a new day, one of tranquility and not hostility. One of happiness and not bitterness. One of glory and not agony. It is obvious today, however, that we have yet to see that beautiful day. V's hope was to show us the beauty of freedom and the ugliness of fascism, which he managed to do rather well. But we have not achieved his vision. We are a chaotic people, a lonely island in a swirling sea of stability, jumping into a ditch of decay. We have faulted on our promise to adhere to V's vision, and we have failed to get on the right track.

"Many of you here may not understand why we have failed to achieve it. We did what we had to do, did we not? We supported V's revolution, and we were all a part of it. So why have we failed? The answer, my friends, is simple and obvious: we lack leadership. Yes, my friends: leadership. We lack someone to guide us on our journey, and so we have become lost in the dense forests of failure. But we can still create that perfect Britain, and we can save ourselves from the forthcoming decay of our nation. But we must remember who we are, and why we are here.

"Brothers and sisters, I beseech you, go back to your lives, go back to your homes, and know that we can still find a way to repair ourselves. We have brought ourselves together into a union of uncertainty. Our instincts have abandoned us in our unquenchable thirst for freedom. We must hone in on the issue of immigration, for one thing. In allowing them to assimilate into our culture, we have forgotten our own identities. We have allowed the mandates of multiculturalism to overtake us, and we have abandoned our identities as Englishmen. We must find a way to open our arms to the world while maintaining our sovereign backyard.

"It's time for us to rely on our own self-worth and to take responsibility for our financial situations. We must work toward the overall productivity of this country, and we must then bring ourselves to think about how we can better ourselves.

"Finally, we must control the crime rate. We must enforce our laws and punish offenders, taking criminals off the streets. Only then, my brothers and sisters, can we truly bring ourselves to achieve V's hope." With that, Dascomb stood and looked out at his fellow Britons. For a few seconds, there was silence. Then suddenly, thunderous applause erupted from the crowd. Dascomb bowed and took his leave, walking away from Big Ben. Just as he moved away, Heyer took the stage and called for attention. "Britons, I beseech you!" Again, the crowd fell silent. Heyer cleared his throat and began. His speech was siginificantly shorter and more direct, a product of his age relative to the younger Dascomb. It was, for him, an insulting aspect of Sutler's plan, but it made perfect sense.

"V's revolution has brought us chaos beyond anything we can imagine. True, he intended for a better day, but it is obvious that we have failed to bring ourselves to that vision. We must begin to restructure our society, and bring ourselves back into the national spotlight. I agree with the man who just spoke, but I find his methods repulsive, and surely I can convince you to see things my way as well.

"We are currently a discontent and disorganized people, guided by nothing but our animalistic instincts. After all, that's what lawlessness brings out in us: untamed wildness. Yes, the former regime was tyrannical and revolting, but Britain belongs to us now. It belongs not to a party, but to a public. We have arrived at a crucial point in our history, and it's time we reach our destination. We need now a government based in individual liberty and self-reliance, but at the same time we need a government willing to step in and keep society in check."

"It's time for us to unite with a guiding body, on whom we can rely on for help in troubled times. It's time for us to prevent, rather than stop, crime. We must deal with the issues which foster crime among our populace, and then we must eradicate those factors: poverty, despair, boredom. And finally, we must concern ourselves with us, rather than them. The world has dealt without us for ten years, we must now be our own nation! Britons, UNITE!" The crowd erupted into applause again. Someone, finally, shouted: "Let us hold elections to determine which of you two shall guide us!" The audience cheered approvingly. Heyer walked around Big Ben and met up with his longtime friend.

"We're halfway to power Roger," he said with a smirk. Dascomb smiled and patted his friend on the back.

"Conrad, we're already there. The power of words is the path to power itself. Soon, it will all fall into place, my dear friend. Soon, it will all fall into place."


	8. Chapter 7: The True Players

_Seven months later…_

Evey sat in her cell, huddled in a corner with utter shame. She hated it here, hated this dark, murky, dreary prison cell. Once a week, Sutler would come in and rape her, each attack slightly more brutal than the last. His most recent visit was just yesterday, and he had knocked out her tooth in an attempt to render her unconscious. She felt so filthy, so defiled and wrong. How could he do this to her? Here was a man who looked down on the public and referred to _them_ as "savages" before raping her! But Evey didn't dare point out his hypocrisy; for all she knew, he'd probably beat her senseless. Each day she feared that he would walk in the door, always expecting it every second. His presence was frighteningly overbearing, and his voice disgusted her. Well, at least he had already come by yesterday; he only came by once a week. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps resounded through the halls outside. Evey huddled into the corner and sobbed.

"Newspaper," a droll voice barked from behind the door. A bundled up issue of the _Telegraph_ shot through the little slot in the door, landing with a soft thud. Evey looked at it with curiosity: why was she getting a newspaper? This was pretty unusual: the only thing she got, if she was lucky enough, was a plate of slop and a bowl of month-old soup. Maybe a piece of stale bread if she let resisted Sutler's perverted advances. Evey crawled over to the door and unraveled the newspaper, listening to the refreshing crinkling sound of the paper as the rubber band came undone. She then let the paper open up and stared in horror at the front page headline:

"Roger Dascomb Wins Election."

Next to the headline was a picture of a smiling Roger Dascomb, holding hands with a young woman and two children, presumably his wife and kids. Evey fell back slightly; she knew Roger Dascomb, her former boss when she worked at the BNN. This was a man who preached total, unabated loyalty to the Norsefire Party, who unthinkingly worshipped Sutler and the ground he walked upon. How was this happening?

The door unlocked and swung open. Evey looked up and felt an overwhelming sense of horror travel down her spine. Adam Sutler walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He was wearing a slightly wrinkled suit and pants, and he wore a pair of beaten-up leather shoes. The only new-looking thing on him was the polished hair on his head, and even that showed signs of coming undone. He smiled and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

"Why?" Evey asked through clenched teeth. She held up the paper and shook it violently. "WHY!?"

"Oh, Ms. Hammond," Sutler chuckled as he lit the cigarette. "You didn't expect me to just come back for a little revenge, did you?" Evey clenched her fist in blind rage. There was no way this could be happening: Norsefire was back in command!

"Do you think that you'll really get away with this? The public will just overthrow you again before they let you take control of the country a second time!"

"Precisely, Ms. Hammond: they would overthrow _me_," Sutler said as he took a drag off the cigarette. "They will _not_, however, overthrow a man they have never met or heard of. And how do you think Mr. Dascomb got elected in the first place? By invoking the name of this country's reputed savior, the man who brought Norsefire to its knees: V.

"Ms. Hammond, do you really think that this country would have elected Mr. Dascomb if he hadn't invoked the name of their hero? The man who freed them from my glorious rule? I think we can agree that they wouldn't have even voted if neither candidate mentioned V's name at least once. Because that is how a politician wins an election: make a proposal, attach to it the name of the common man's hero, and repeat that lie until it becomes an accepted truth. Simply convince the people that their hero wants something to be done, and you have already won the office. Any tactical politician knows that in order to get elected, one simply has to pretend that they represent the common man, and the common man's hero, and they can convince the electorate to believe even the biggest and most obvious lie.

"Why can't we allow homosexuals to marry? You can't argue with _God_. Why can't we end a war? It will hurt the morale of _the soldiers_. Why can't we give amnesty to immigrants? They take jobs away from _the people_. Just repeat the big lie, invoke a respected individual, or an esteemed group, or even the people themselves, and you can talk them into anything. Keep the truth out of sight, and you keep it out of their minds."

Evey hung her head and looked at the picture of Dascomb's smiling face. It was the worst thing she'd ever seen in a long time, and now she had to live with it. Behind that gorgeous smile, she knew, was the frown of an older, angrier man. It was the man in front of her. She read the article slowly, and then blinked with interest when she came across another name: "Conrad Heyer."

"Someone ran against Dascomb?" she asked with surprise. Sutler cocked his head and took a long drag off of his cigarette.

"No, Ms. Hammond. Conrad Heyer was my second trusted advisor."

"Why would you cast your men against each other?"

"They were never running against each other in sincerity, Ms. Hammond. They were simply competing for the same job. Sure, they preached different positions on the issues, but in the end, it would never have mattered if Mr. Dascomb had won or if Mr. Heyer had won; they work for me.

"When people go to vote, they have been told to think in terms of left or right, not in terms of who will do something for them. Therefore, they will always end up voting for the same results. The only difference is the packaging. Thus, a vote for Mr. Heyer was a vote for me, and a vote for Mr. Dascomb was a vote for me. In this chess game of politics, the true players are the people with influence: the corporations, the wealthy, the lobbyists. The politicians and the people are just the pieces, to be played and manipulated for profit and purpose. No matter what a candidate says on the campaign trail, when he gets into office he is at the whim of the wealthy, who use their power to purchase the public. As long as the people are out of the loop, they will forever be owned by those with money. As long as the corporations can give money to the politicians, they will forever be the owners of the public's perspective."

Sutler tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it. Smiling, he waved at her and opened the door. "Sleep well, Ms. Hammond." He laughed and slammed the door, his footsteps resounding down the hallway as Evey buried her head in her hands and sobbed heavily. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be…


End file.
